The dim, amber light of the bar cast flickering shadows over the scuffed wooden table where Viktor sat, his long fingers idly tracing the rim of his second bottle of Zaunite vodkar. A faint warmth had begun to creep through his chest—a familiar, delayed buzz that alcohol brought him. It was more an observation than an indulgence, really; he'd always had a tolerance far exceeding what one might assume from his wiry frame. Another sip passed his lips, smooth but biting, and he set the bottle down with a soft clink, his gaze shifting sideways.

There you were.

Leaning against him, warm and boneless like gravity had doubled just for you. Four shots. Four. That was all it had taken before you started to unravel. At first, you'd tried to match him, all bravado and laughter, but the flush in your cheeks had deepened far too quickly, and your words had started tumbling out with a telltale slur. Now, here you were, your head buried into his shoulder, murmuring... something.

Viktor tilted his head slightly, glancing at you with a mixture of amusement and mild disbelief. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips—barely there, but genuine. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought you’d be so... endearing in this state.

“You’re rather terrible at this,” he murmured, his voice low and tinged with humor, though there was no malice in the words. “Four shots? Truly?”

You mumbled something again, your breath warm against his shoulder, but it was incoherent—just a string of sounds that might’ve been words if you’d had your wits about you. Your hand clutched weakly at the sleeve of his coat, like some anchor to keep you steady in the spinning world.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound more of a soft exhale than anything else. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” he said, though his tone lacked any real admonishment. If anything, he found your current state... charming.

Ridiculous? certainly, but in an oddly endearing way.